Knotted Too Tightly
by InsolitaParvaPuella
Summary: It was 1971 and the world had been torn in three. Despite this, Canada and Ukraine attempted to try and rekindle their relationship.


Hello. A short note before we start: this fic relies heavily on a headcanon of mine that Ukraine went to Canada in the 1800s along with a wave of immigrants, and they parted in 1905 when trouble started stirring in Russia. They said goodbye on Prince Edward Island, in the middle of a courtship. I've used this backstory in a lot of my fics (most recently _Euphoria of the Deep_ ), but normally the prose is more explicit than it could be this time.

* * *

It was 1971 and the world had been torn in three. It was visible even in the way everyone arranged themselves for conversation before the doors to the meeting room had opened. There were those of the first world with America at its centre, those of the second world with the Soviet Union at its centre, and those who refused to support superpowers already equipped to destroy them all.

In his brother's long shadow, Canada felt secure. Though a hundred voices pulled him in a hundred different directions, the worst of it had passed. And there was little conflict within himself on this: better to be protected by his sole neighbour then subject to that neighbour's paranoia and suspicions. He couldn't see where his necessary pragmatism ended and genuine love for his brother began anymore. The politics and person were knotted together too tightly to ever be certain.

The doors swung open and everyone began to enter the meeting room. It was more a lecture hall in its size and arrangement, a rounded room with brown padded seats on one side and a podium at the bottom of the far end of the room for a speaker. The room smelled of old foam and cigarette smoke.

As Canada was swept in with the crush of people he could see the two Germanys being shuffled towards each other. They didn't even glance at each other, but Canada could swear he saw their knuckles brush. He could think only about how his heart had ached when he was at war with his twin, even as his own people raged against the Yankee menace. He turned his head away.

The world had been torn in three in the massive lecture hall. The first and second world sat at opposite sides of the room with the third world in between. The air was thick with tension, and Canada thought that it was only the terrors from the decade before that made now feel so calm. But even now, something as innocent as a discussion of the rights of children was an ideological minefield.

Spain took the floor first and Canada began taking notes in his jagged shorthand. A morning of lecture, then lunch, and then time for private meetings that he could determine at his own discretion. He'd been told by his government that it would be best to extend his network of friendships, rather than strengthen ties between himself and his nearest and dearest. But then, he was not required to submit a report on these meetings. He was trusted to foster his relationships as he wished.

Just so long as they were the _right_ relations, he thought. An impulse struck him with shocking intensity and he glanced across the room. Then he forced his eyes back on his notes, wrenching his thoughts back to his note-taking. They drifted again. She looked different now, even from across the room. She was no longer the woman crowned with golden plaits that he remembered. Her hair was short enough now that there could be no more crowns for her.

For a moment he was deep enough in memory that he could smell the Atlantic.

Another speaker: Japan. Canada was pulled back into the moment and he renewed his efforts. If he wanted to be heard, he had to do the work to have something to say.

-.-

The meeting was over. Canada slipped his pencil behind his ear and packed his notes in his briefcase. If he moved quickly he could arrange all his desired private conversations now. He was rarely approached by his fellow nations, but equally rarely rejected. He pulled a small notepad from his pocket and weaved through the crowd, going mentally through his list of conversation partners.

By the time he'd left the lecture hall, he'd nearly filled his dance card, so to speak. Commonwealth siblings, companions on the Americas, and European friends all had claims on his time. He'd not spoken to those of the second world, except for Cuba.

It was time to eat. He was one of the last people to leave the hall. At least he'd probably have the elevator to himself.

He didn't. Someone called for him to hold the elevator, and he was so accustomed to her accent he did not recognise it as foreign until she was hurrying into the elevator. Adrenaline flushed through him and he became so very aware of her.

He'd privately sorrowed over the loss of her long hair already, but up close he got a flood of details both new and familiar. Her shoulders were still broad and strong under her beige button-down blouse, but her clothes hung strangely on her body. She'd lost weight. And there was a faint smell of cigarette smoke that had accompanied her into the elevator. She looked tired.

The doors closed.

"Matthew," she said by way of greeting, not looking at him. And oh, she was always so clever about navigating between their dual identities. The fear and anger and revulsion that roiled in his gut settled slightly, and whatever feeling that was crushing his throat eased just enough for him to reply.

"Katyusha," he answered, uncertain of if it was blind fury or tender affection making it difficult to breathe. The voices in his head were whispering "enemy" at the same fervency and volume as another, gentler voice said "beloved". The contrast made him ill.

"Have lunch with me," she said, and he could not read any of the emotions in her voice or posture. "There's a fine place to sit in the lobby."

He glanced at the number lit up above the button panel. "Yeah," he said. The number blinked, there was a beep, and the doors slid open. He stepped out into a dim hallway. His mind was oddly quiet and his adrenaline rush now just left him with shaking hands. He jammed his free hand into his trouser pocket and walked steadily to his borrowed office.

The door was still locked and when Canada went in he saw no sign that his brother or Mexico had been through. They were probably at a restaurant with some friends. He felt a brief pang of regret for turning down their offer the night before, but the regret vanished with the thought of his much more interesting lunch date.

His curiosity might yet be his downfall, as both France and England had remarked when he was still a colony. But now that the panic had left his system something else was filling the gap. Some hot, potent mix of curiosity and the attraction he had not yet lost for her, the instinctive and impersonal revulsion he felt through the voices of his people and government, and the weight of a promise he was no longer certain he was free of. Did he even wish to be free? He couldn't be certain. He couldn't imagine being with her, not as they had once been. But neither could he imagine not following her down this path, if only she said the word.

He found his brown paper bag in the cooler and took an extra moment to smooth his hair and straighten his tie. He locked the door behind him as he left.

-.-

Canada couldn't see her when he stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. There was a stab of emotion in his gut he couldn't immediately identify. Had his repressed reaction made her think he wasn't interested? He took several steps to the left and glanced around, trying to see through the abundance of potted plants that decorated the space.

The feeling in his gut dissolved into general uncertainty. She was standing by the door, speaking with Poland. Her expression was brighter than it had been in the elevator. For a moment he hesitated, but then Poland stepped away with a wink, and she was left alone. The brightness faded. He rolled his shoulders and stepped forward.

Their eyes met, and her posture closed off a little more. She turned from the door and strolled away from the check-in desks and towards the bar. He followed her. She led him to a small round table with two simple chairs, tucked between a potted fern and the tall windows. He'd not seen it until she slid past the fern and he knew to look for something. The windows were reflective on the outside, if he remembered correctly, especially on a sunny afternoon. No one was going to see them unless they were actively looking. They were hiding in plain sight, and when she'd found this place she'd thought to invite him to share it. He crushed the hope fluttering in his chest.

He could hardly remember what he'd packed for lunch, even as he was eating it. All his attention was on her. He was searching for a sign. Danger or invitation, he wasn't sure which one he anticipated more.

She set her thermos down.

"Matthew," she said. "You're looking well."

"You've changed," he said. He forced himself to sound curious instead of accusatory.

"So have you," she answered.

Canada bit his tongue. He couldn't bear dancing around the only question he wanted to ask and dreaded asking.

"Is there time now?" he asked, hoping beyond everything that she remembered.

She was staring at her folded hands. The pause was long enough that he became certain she remembered. "No," she said at last, "we waited too long."

It shocked him, how much it hurt. His heart ached and any words he thought he'd have at the ready simply vanished.

"But I don't care," she said suddenly. "We can make time." She hadn't lifted her gaze, so there was no way for her to see the thrill on his face. No smile, but it was as if all the lights in him were lit at once.

He pulled his notepad from his pocket and his pencil from above his ear. He flipped to a clean page and scrawled a message in his jagged shorthand. He slid it across the table to her.

After a moment she raised her gaze to meet his. She wasn't smiling either, but her eyes were dewy and he could see his own excitement reflected in her face.

-.-

His excitement curdled into regret, worry, and dread as he made arrangements. India asked no questions except "are you sure?" and only told him to be careful, but it was enough to disperse the excitement flooding him. But his sister in Commonwealth was willing to give him the space and time he'd requested and had the discretion to keep quiet about it.

Then Canada pushed aside all these thoughts and focused only on his upcoming meetings. There was a lot to do before the day was over and a lot of it was important. He recited numbers to himself, trying to recall trade details.

When the time came, she was waiting outside the office in the dim hallway. It was exactly as India promised: empty and unlocked. The lights all off and the curtains half-drawn. He stepped in and heard her shut the door and lock it. Nervousness, exhilaration, and terror all battled in his chest.

After a moment to breathe he turned around. She was standing there, still very close to the door. The sole beam of sunlight that made it between the curtains had illuminated the side of her face and painted her in strange shadows. He could see it clearly now: the same conflict in him was painted on her face.

"Katyusha," he whispered, his voice and breath trapped in his throat. He wanted to take her hand and run his thumb along her knuckles. He wanted to promise that now things could be as they had wished, decades ago on an island with red roads. His heart leapt with fear and anticipation— now was his chance!

"Don't move," she said. He felt his whole body grow tense, but she only stepped towards him slowly. Immediately something in him wanted to flee. The door was locked, and he was too high up to jump. He stayed put. Against every voice screaming in his mind, he trusted her. She raised her hands and set them on his lapels. And then she tugged him forward, pressing her face into his chest as he stumbled towards her. A wave of revulsion went through him, but it passed, leaving only the faint taste of blood in his mouth. The inside of his lip ached.

She was breathing strangely against him. It was a familiar rhythm: tears from a girl whose heart was too full, so all her feelings left through her eyes. He remembered hearing that story once, long ago. It was her brother who had said such a sweet thing. Even now, with the whole world between them, Canada agreed with him on this.

"We were never enemies as our brothers are," she said, and he could hear the hitch in her voice. She pulled harder on him. The top of her head was pressed to his breastbone, and she shook her head several times. Her golden hair was getting mussed. Without thinking he smoothed it with one hand. His other was making a path to her shoulder.

"So why can I not bear to touch you?" she sobbed. Her shoulders sagged. His hand was still on her hair, and he removed it. He didn't move again, except to let his muscles slowly relax and fold himself ever so slightly over her. He wasn't sure where his love for her ended and benevolent pity began. The person and the politics were knotted too tightly for him to ever be sure.

-.-

They left the office separately. Alone in his own borrowed office, Canada took the chance to sigh and stretch out on the ugly brown chesterfield. He already missed being able to speak to her freely, but he was also exhausted by the efforts it took to simply not tense up around her. For once, his mind was quiet and his body was settling into calm. In the moment his mind and body and heart were in concord. Détente would come, and the world would be better for it. He'd made a new promise.

One day, the world would be a gentler place, and they would be able to try again. Until then, he could wait.

* * *

A quick historical reference for y'all: Canada has just been through the October Crisis in this fic. That is what the line "Though a hundred voices pulled him in a hundred different directions, the worst of it had passed." is in reference to.


End file.
